


(none of it was ever) worth the risk

by reliquiaen



Category: Plague Tale: Innocence (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: "Just because soul mates are bullshit doesn’t mean she can’t flirt."it's au time. and these are always fun.





	(none of it was ever) worth the risk

Mélie believes in two things:

  1. The only person you can count on is yourself, everyone else will let you down eventually
  2. Soul mates are bullshit (see point one)

She might occasionally make an exception to point one for her brother, but he’s on thin fucking ice ninety percent of the time, so that’s mostly a nonissue. The really big problem she faces is that society in general puts a load of stock in that soul mate nonsense and it’s a real shame that she has to be constantly seeing ads about apps and websites and fucking _psychics_ who claim they can translate your symbol and identify the person it represents and blah, blah, blah, whatever.

She’s seen how soul mate crap ends up. Maybe the symbols match up or something but just because someone is your _soul mate_ doesn’t stop them from being a drunken, abusive fuck who beats kids, does it? Not at all. And that’s the fine print nobody wants you to see.

The fine print that has her wearing a leather wristband from the age of fifteen so no one can ever see the funny little tree and moon that bloomed across her skin the evening of her birthday. Mélie hadn’t even seen it until the next morning, she and Arthur had been hiding in their mother’s closet while their father threw things at walls and over-turned furniture.

Arthur had whispered in the pearly light of dawn the next day, “Maybe someone out there _does_ want us,” as he’d rubbed a thumb across the not-really-ink now marking his wrist (the opposite wrist to hers). His was a hammer and something she couldn’t identify, and she’d joked that maybe he was going to meet one of those renaissance reenactors or something and he’d glared at her.

But they’d packed their bags and left.

Just in case someone _could_ care about them.

It’s been seven years and Mélie can honestly call bullshit on that too.

Runaways? Thieves? No one cares for them. It’s just them.

The van rattles on its rusty axels and the door slides open. Mélie looks up vaguely from her laptop but it’s just Arthur, back from wherever he’d been, still half-facing outside.

He calls, “Ya dumb fuck,” at someone and flips them off then slams the door behind him. “People are morons.”

“Yes. You expected something different?”

He shrugs, emptying his pockets, upending the paper bag he’d brought back with him. “I know, right? Maybe I’m the stupid one.”

She laughs and turns back to her work. “Naw. It’s cute you still have hope for humanity.”

Without even glancing at him she knows he’s flipped her off too.

Her laptop whirrs painfully and she sighs, closing the lid. Two hours and not a second more, that’s how long it takes for the damn contraption to overheat and become useless. Mélie tips forward until her head rests on the edge of the fold-down desk and she sighs again, for good measure.

She sits like that for a while just listening to Arthur unpack the crap he stole (or bought, maybe, probably not) and grumble to himself. When she gets sick of the paper bags crinkling and the clicking as he stacks canned foods into their cupboard, she stands.

“I’m going for a walk.”

He hums, but only speaks when she opens the door. “Eat something.”

Mélie turns just in time to catch the apple he throws at her head. “Asshole.”

“Have fun.”

Bordeaux is one of those cities that’s clean and tidy and friendly on brochures but then you get there and there are all these places no one told you about and you’ve been pick pocketed twice before you leave the airport. It’s nice in that wine-country, kinda way, but obnoxious also in that wine-country way. There are two types of people who live there: the ridiculous rich wine people, and the ridiculous poor people who don’t have any wine.

And tourists. There are always lots of tourists. Because of the wine-country thing.

Tourists are a special kind of awful, in Mélie’s opinion. Mostly because they don’t speak any French and have this haughty, entitled attitude (especially the American ones) and then there are those poor-people-wannabe-hitchhiker weirdos who try to backpack across Europe with no money and beg on the way (again, Americans). Mélie hates them especially because whenever she picks their pockets it’s clear they’re not _actually_ poor people, they just seem to like the _aesthetic_ or whatever.

The only good thing about tourists is that they make easy marks. And they’re super easy to spot.

Luckily for the tourists in Bordeaux, she’s going for a walk just for walking’s sake, and isn’t looking to acquire any questionable passports or zip-lock bags full of currency they can’t read. She takes a bite of her apple and it snaps in just the right crunchy way that tells her Arthur went to the farmer’s market that morning. No supermarket has apples that crunch quite the same way.

Mélie wanders aimlessly, the only real thing guiding her feet towards the west is the same thing that always draws her to the river. The Garonne may not be the prettiest river in the world, but it’s wide and flat and the bridge is one of the few places in a city so busy where she can pretend just for a moment that things are different. A place where she can breathe.

Mostly because there’s enough room on the bridge (_the_ bridge, she thinks as if there’s only one), enough open air that she feels infinite. Not that imaging a better life, a different scenario, is healthy, probably, but to just pretend for a second that things don’t suck as much can be a nice reprieve.

She leans on the railing and exhales, head hanging forward so all she can see is the water. People bustle around her, most not close enough to bother her, but once someone asks her to take a photo of them and their wife (she assumes). Mélie does so and the thought of filching something from them crosses her mind only briefly before they thank her in god-awful French and head on their way.

Deciding it’s probably time she head back (her work won’t finish itself), she steps away, drops the remains of her apple in the nearest bin, stuffs her hands into her pockets and ambles off. Mélie does, spur of the moment, elect to take the long way back, just because.

The only good thing about living in a van is that they can pretty much park wherever they want, be as close or as far from certain areas as they please. This can mean near tourist hotspots for good thieving options, or in more respectable places when they’re trying not to be caught by people. It also means that they’re _very_ hard to track down.

The _bad_ thing is that she shares the van with her brother who’s an asshole and likes to move where it’s parked whenever she leaves. This time she brought the keys with her, however, so she doesn’t feel hurried at all to get back.

Plus, it’s fun to wander down the side streets and watch people (also window shopping). There aren’t as many fancy places this side of the river, most of the high-end shops and businesses are on the less swampy west bank, but all that really means is that this area tends to attract more of the money-conscious types. Occasionally, however, someone who very clearly should not be here happens to walk in looking all out of place.

And they are _prime_ targets for thieves.

Mélie is leaning in towards the display window at a bakery and debating whether or not she should find someone with loose change to buy her a cupcake when there’s a raised voice from the café next door. She looks up, only vaguely curious (commotions can be a good chance for thieving), to see a smiling man stumbling out of the door. He has a hand lifted towards – her eyes follow the direction – a young woman, probably about her own age. She has her shoulders lifted and is very pointedly ignoring the guy.

He has longer legs, though, and catches up to her easily, grabbing her by the elbow; not roughly, just unwelcomely, by the look on the girl’s face. They exchange words but she doesn’t grow any more comfortable if the tension in her entire body and the way she leans back imperceptibly is any indication.

Mélie blinks, and her feet do that thing where they take her somewhere and she hasn’t been informed where or why yet. It’s towards the woman, though, because of course she’s going to get involved, naturally.

She swings past the guy (fingers slipping into his blazer pocket on the way) and tips an elbow up onto the girl’s shoulder. “Hey, sorry I’m late. The cab driver got us lost.” Mélie makes a point of eyeing the coffee cup in her hand and pouts. “What? No drink for me? Babe, harsh, I’m not _that_ late.”

The woman blinks at her stupidly but luckily the guy doesn’t notice because he’s _also_ blinking at her stupidly. Fortunately, the woman recovers first. “Coffee machine was busted,” she says quietly.

“Lame.” Mélie tilts her face towards the guy. “Making friends everywhere, I see.” She sticks her left hand out towards him. “Mélie.”

Like a buffoon, he takes it, doesn’t even miss a beat before extending his own left hand (probably reflex from business meetings or something). “Paul.” He looks confused, the poor dear. When she lets go of his wrist, she slips his watch off too. From the weight alone she can tell it’s expensive.

“Nice to meet you.” She turns back to the woman. “Not that this isn’t fun, but I _am_ late and if we don’t go soon we won’t make it in time. Don’t think your parents will forgive me a second time.”

The woman, bless her, seems to have recovered from her initial shock and when she bobs her head it lacks the dazed quality from before. “Right. Yes. Mum hasn’t let me forget our _delay_ last time.”

Mélie just laughs, glances back to Paul and says again, “Was nice to see you,” as if she knows him better than she does. They turn away and he walks off, shaking his head. So, she takes that moment to flip open his wallet and slide out a few notes without counting. The woman is so preoccupied studying her face Mélie doesn’t think she’s even noticed. When she calls out, “Paul, hey! This yours?” her eyes finally flick down to her hands.

Paul turns, spots his wallet, pats his blazer pocket, frowns. “Yeah… weird.”

“Better not lose it.”

He takes it carefully from her, tucks it into his front pants pocket and leaves. Mélie gives him a cute little wave. Idiot.

“Amicia,” the woman says.

“No. _Mélie_,” she repeats.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Me. I’m Amicia.”

“Pleasure.” She looks over at the bakery and then down at the notes she’d swiped and _holy shit_ two of them are two-hundred-euro notes. Well fuck. “Do you want a cupcake?”

Amicia is smiling when Mélie glances back up. “What?”

“That guy was _loaded_,” she says, lifting one of the notes. “So I asked if you want a cupcake. That shop makes _great_ carrot cake.”

“Did… did you _rob_ that guy?”

She shrugs. “He was being an asshole. Come on, I’ll buy you a cake.”

Without waiting, she turns towards the bakery. Amicia will follow or she won’t, doesn’t make a difference to Mélie either way. Actually, if she _doesn’t_ follow that means she gets to keep the like, eight euros a cupcake costs.

She follows, hand touching her elbow to gain her attention. “Thank you, for that.”

“It’s nothing. Guys are the worst.” She holds the door for Amicia and the funny look she gets for it is well worth how much of a dork she feels after. “Props to you for rolling with it. I thought you were gonna give me away.”

“Well it’s not every day a pretty girl shows up to rescue you,” Amicia mumbles, inspecting the display case. “Caught me a little off guard.”

Mélie tries very hard not to swallow her tongue and occupies herself with ordering: carrot for herself, caramel for Arthur (because he’ll kill her if she doesn’t get him one), and – when Amicia is done perusing – a chocolate-strawberry for her. She rolls her eyes, pays with a fifty; of the seven notes she’d slipped from that guy’s wallet, fifty is the smallest denomination. Talk about loaded, alright.

Amicia lifts an eyebrow. “Two for you?”

“My brother.” She slides into a booth and peels the wrapper from the bottom. “You don’t have to stick around, you know.”

“I know.” She sinks into the seat opposite anyway. “Are you some kind of professional thief?”

Mélie smiles crookedly. “I’m no Danny Ocean, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Amicia smiles back, somehow earnest despite everything. And she eats the cupcake with the tiny plastic fork, how adorable.

So Mélie continues, “My brother’s the professional. I’m more what the police call an opportunistic thief. According to my tax records, my occupation is hacker.”

Amicia laughs around a mouthful, even lifts a hand to cover her face. “Isn’t that just another way of saying a computer thief?”

“Depends. I don’t steal computers. Too bulky.”

She keeps laughing.

Mélie shifts in her seat, frowns at her food. “More of a white hat, actually. Though my brother thinks it’s stupid.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“What part?”

“White hat?”

“Oh.” She picks up her own fork, feeling uncouth sitting across from this pretty, well-adjusted woman. “Uh. I hack for the right reasons? Freelance work for security firms and stuff like that. They pay me to find problems with their systems.”

“Oh. That sounds fun.”

“Sometimes. And sometimes it’s _really_ not.” She stabs her cupcake violently, thinking about the process that overheated her laptop earlier. “And what about you? Professional harassee?”

Amicia laughs again. Mélie smiles right along with her. “No, uh…”

“S’okay. I’m a random you just met.”

“No! Just… Well I don’t know how to explain it, really. I work with my parents.” Mélie nods along as Amicia dithers about looking for words. “We have a winery.”

Mélie arches an eyebrow, her lips twist up at one corner. So. She’s one of _those_ people. “How fancy. And what brings you into the city? Thought the wine-folk never left their castles?”

Something flickers in Amicia’s eyes but Mélie can’t tell what it is. “I live in the city,” she says. “At my parents’ place. My _parents_ live in the castle.” And that… almost sounds _teasing_. “Actually, how good are you at your job?”

“Which one?”

“The hacking one.”

“Only the good hackers can afford to go freelance.” She pauses, chewing on her cupcake and studying Amicia’s face. “Why?”

“My parents bought one of those expensive self-contained security systems but my dad’s paranoid because the last guy he hired to evaluate it tried to make off with some expensive things.”

“So naturally,” Mélie says, waving her pretentious tiny fork, “what you do is hire a confessed _thief_ to do it. Of course.”

“You haven’t robbed me.”

“That you know of.”

Amicia leans across the table and repeats, “You haven’t robbed me.” There’s not even a hint of a ‘yet’ omitted from the end. Impressive.

Mélie twirls the fork over her knuckles, thinking it through. “If it’s self-contained that means you want me on-site, yeah?”

“Yes. And you will obviously be well paid.”

“You don’t know what I consider to be well paid, princess.”

“I don’t need to.” Something about the look in her eye, the confident tone of her voice when she says that has Mélie shifting on her seat. “It’ll be a two-day job, tops.”

She hesitates one beat longer and says, “Fine.”

Amicia leans back. “Great. Be here at nine tomorrow morning, I’ll have a car pick you up.”

Mélie offers her a smile but doesn’t linger much longer, this has already gone about four directions she didn’t expect, no need to push her luck. She stands, taking the caramel cupcake with her and performs a mocking half-bow. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” She winks for good measure.

Just because soul mates are bullshit doesn’t mean she can’t _flirt_.

\--

“Think fast.”

Arthur fails miserably and takes the cupcake to the face. “Oof. Bitch. Oh! You went to the bakery. Why?”

“There was a cute girl in need of help getting away from an asshole.”

“Oh? How’d that go for you?”

“She… offered me work?”

He bursts out laughing. “No way. Doing what?”

“Hacking her parents’ very expensive security system?”

The laughter fades and he leans his elbows across his knees so he can lean towards her. “No way.”

“Yes, way. I’ll be out of town for two days apparently because it’s a wine property.”

“Fuck. Lift _everything_.”

“I’ll do my best.”

\--

True to her word, a shiny black car pulls up outside the bakery at nine the next morning. The car is worth more than she and Arthur have ever seen in their lives. Amicia is not in it, so Mélie spends the two-hour drive poking through the interior and staring out the window.

That gets boring pretty quick though, so she ends up lying down on the illegally comfortable seat and taking a nap. And she doesn’t wake up until a door slams. The driver is gone but then _her_ door opens and Amicia is leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey, sleepy.”

“Shut up. I don’t usually get up before noon.” She slides from the car and finds the driver guy hefting her single suitcase (it’s actually Arthur’s) from the boot. He _clearly_ thinks he’s going to take it so she shoos him away and grabs the handle herself.

Mélie shades her face with her free hand and squints up at the monstrous building.

“Welcome to Chateau d’Ombrâge,” Amicia says, stepping backwards up the gravel path so she can watch Mélie’s expression. “This is the de Rune winery, it’s been in our family for centuries. I can show you around if you like?”

Mélie doesn’t give two shits about history or pretentious mansions, but Amicia looks so thrilled that she actually showed up that she finds herself nodding anyway. She’s already forgotten her promise to Arthur.

“So the Romans brought wine to the region like,” she waves a hand as she falls into step beside Mélie, “a bazillion years ago, but the success of the region depended on economic and social factors. There was a great big war at some point and it all fell apart. My great, something something, grandfather was a knight to some French guy but when the English invaded in the fourteen century, or whenever that was, he switched sides? I think to fight for Edward? Was he the Black Prince? He ran the place, named my family nobility. Then the French reclaimed it later but the de Runes kept their places at the top because someone had to run the place. And now here we are.”

“So you’re like… really a princess or something then, yeah?” She keeps her tone as neutral as possible but Amicia somehow seems to have a sixth sense about this and knows she’s being teased.

“No! Don’t be silly. Knights, though, yes.”

“I guess you could’ve taken that guy at the bakery then?”

Amicia laughs. “I don’t know about that. Maybe. Depends how far he wanted to push his luck.”

“Oh, I like you.”

Amicia pushes the heavy front doors open and holds it for her. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.”

Mélie… doesn’t really hear her. She’s stopped cold just inside the doorway, eyes wide and fixed on the shield hanging on the wall by the stairs directly across from them. It’s old, clearly well worn and actually used in combat, two swords are hung underneath it in similar condition, no doubt heirlooms from when her family were actual armour-wearing knights.

But it’s the chipped emblem painted onto the shield that’s turned her blood to ice. A red tree with bare branches, the sun caught in its canopy, a crescent moon resting at its roots. The skin of her left wrist starts to _burn_.

Amicia waves a hand in front of her face. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she lies, eyes not leaving the shield. “I… what’s that?”

“Our family crest. Why?”

Unconsciously, she rubs at the leather band hiding her tattoo, thumb pressing into the skin at the edge. Her mouth opens, closes. Amicia leans a little closer, interrupting her view of the crest just enough that she finally thinks to shake herself out. “Nothing. Just curious. People still do that stuff?”

Amicia doesn’t look convinced, worry crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Don’t know. It’s part of my family history, though. And it’s kind of cool.”

“I guess so.” She follows Amicia woodenly up the stairs but it’s not until the shield is out of her sight that she actually relaxes. Marginally.

The house (mansion, she corrects herself) is three or four storeys, probably, but Mélie misses most of what they walk past, still trapped in her head, dazed. Amicia stops in front of a door and Mélie nearly walks into her.

“This is the guest room,” she says, as if they have just the one. “My room’s just down there. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. I’ll uh…” Amicia flaps her arms uncomfortably at her sides. “Give you a minute to look around, then I’ll show you the security room.”

Mélie watches her go, down the hall towards the room she’d indicated, but it’s unclear if she’s watching Amicia or thinking about the crest. Both, maybe. She does have the presence of mind to duck into the guest room before she’s caught mooning, though.

And for a guest room it’s awfully… big. She leaves the suitcase by the door and sticks her nose into the three doorways that lead from the entrance space, which is in itself essentially a lounge room. There’s a bedroom with a giant fucking bed, an en suit and a whole entire walk-in wardrobe. Because of course there is. Rich people.

She flops face first onto the bed and just… She just lies there for a few minutes. The mark on her wrist throbs, not painfully, just as a reminder that it’s there and she can hide it but that doesn’t change anything.

Mélie had honestly assumed it would never be a problem if she just didn’t talk to anyone. Therefore it wouldn’t matter if her universe designated soul mate believed in that crap because they’d never meet, never have to talk about it, and never even have to contemplate possible scenarios involving… this shit. Ideal. A perfect little imaginary world.

After a few minutes, a half dozen long, deep breaths, and perhaps a few frustrated tears, she rolls off the bed to her feet. Best to just ignore it. The whole lot of it. She’ll hack the de Rune security, patch up gaps in their system and be on her way. They never have to look at each other again. No big deal.

Resolved to this course of action, she sucks in one more breath, slides her laptop from the suitcase and heads out the door to knock on Amicia’s room. It’s pulled open mere seconds later and that resolve crumbles.

“I’m uh… ready to hack your computer now.”

Amicia _beams_ at her. “Great!”

Mélie motions for Amicia to go first and follows her along the corridor and up another flight of steps. She watches her silently the whole way, wondering.

The security system is on the top floor, tucked away in one corner behind a password locked door. Her father really _is_ paranoid. Her jaw drops when she sees it though. It’s the sort of system dreams are made of.

There’s an honest to god _wall_ of security monitors, synched to the camera system spread through the house and grounds. All in colour too. Fuck, that must have cost some money. There are _several_ databanks and a pair of free-standing industrial-quality servers covered in little blinking lights.

Amicia’s smile softens and it takes Mélie a beat to realise the expression is aimed at _her_.

Her heart stutters to a standstill and her lungs seem to have trouble taking in air at the look on Amicia’s face. It’s. It’s _beyond_ weird.

She finds it equally weird that she can’t tear her eyes away. She must look like an idiot.

Something flickers on Amicia’s face that Mélie can’t place but when it passes her smile fades just the barest amount. “Alright, then,” she says, brushing a hand at Mélie’s elbow as she walks back to the door. “I’ll let you get to it. If you need me…” She crosses to the desk and grabs a pen from the little well and scribbles on a Post-It. When she comes back, she presses the paper into Mélie’s hand. “If you need me, that’s my number. I’ve got some things to do so I might have to wander.”

Mélie opens her mouth to reply but her voice gets stuck and she has to cough before trying again. “Sure, yeah. I got this.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Amicia doesn’t break eye contact until she pulls the door closed and when she does all the bones in Mélie’s body turn to something a lot like jelly. She barely manages to wobble to the swivel chair before her knees give out.

Once her heart has figured out its whole reason for being again, she sends a text to Arthur: _it’s her family crest_.

Then she gets to work. Her laptop is still shit but even two hours should be enough if she’s lucky. At least she knows that if _she _can hack into something with her craptastic laptop then pretty much anyone can. It was cute of Amicia not to give her the wifi password but maybe she knew Mélie wouldn’t need it.

She’s about twenty minutes into groaning over out-dated and underwhelming firewall accesses when her phone pings. Since she’s working, she ignores it. The first time. It pings twice in quick succession a few minutes later so she sighs and picks it up.

Of course. Arthur’s name flashes. (Or… well, he’s saved as ‘Asshole’ in her phone. Same thing.)

_what’s who’s what now?_

_ohhh, the cute girl, i assume, sorry. what about her_

_also who still has a family crest. wild_

She huffs and deliberates not sending him a reply at all if he’s gonna be like this. Her thumbs tap against the sides of her phone before she replies with, _my tattoo dumbass_.

The first response she gets from him is a gif of someone laughing so hard they’re crying and then the words, _youve gotta be jokin_.

_no joke_

And then, because it’s Arthur and he’s a hopeful fool, he says, _is it her tho_

_don’t know and don’t care_

She locks her phone and goes back to work. It pings a few more times before he evidently gives up on hassling her. Thank god.

Mélie manages to crack one of the layers of the security protocols around the winery and its associated databases (which she assumes include bank details and accounting shit if any of the encoding can be expected to make sense) before the door creaks open.

“Mélie?”

“Yeah, hey. Your dad’s got a lot of layers, you know?”

“That’s what mum says.”

She blinks and looks over her shoulder. “Huh?”

“He’s a complicated man,” Amicia expands. “Layers?”

Mélie laughs. “No, I meant here, protecting your _estate_.”

She steps into the room, right up to Mélie’s shoulder. “He does?” And her voice has this funny soft quality to it that makes her shiver.

Mélie coughs breathily. “Ah… yeah. He does. Some of it’s not very good, though.”

“I just wanted you to see if you could crack the databases for the winery,” she says, that same strange note to her words.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve got a program running a decryption at the moment.” She waves her hand. “Until it’s done I’ve just been busying myself poking through the other stuff your dad’s trying to hide away.”

“Well, why don’t you come downstairs for lunch, then?”

Mélie opens her mouth to agree but her phone pings again. “I’m gonna throttle him,” she grumbles.

Amicia looks down at her phone but Mélie doesn’t know if she sees anything in it. The lock screen is just a photo of her brother with his shirt on fire and the preview from his latest text says, _n i want proof of…_ which is pretty inconspicuous.

“Annoying brother?”

“Just doesn’t know to leave me alone when I’m working. He’s a jerk.”

“Did he… um…” She waits for Mélie to follow her out, fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what she’s going to say or how it will be received. “Did he set himself on fire?”

She just laughs. “That’s from a couple years ago, when we were trying to figure out how to use the stove top. He set it, our dinner and himself on fire.”

“That’s…”

“Pure talent,” Mélie supplies for her with a shrug. “What can I say? We’re both disasters.”

Amicia trots down the stairs looking back at her the whole way and it’s honestly impressive that she doesn’t trip. “I don’t know, you seem pretty well put together so far.”

She waves it away. “Bah. All illusion.”

Laughing, she points the way to the kitchen. It is also ginormous. “Food allergies?”

“None that I know of.”

“Comforting.”

Amicia shoos her away when she tries to help out so she sits on a bar stool by the kitchen island and leans against the tabletop, elbow propped up so she can support her chin in the hollow of one palm and observe. She feels a little bit creepy, actually, but Amicia smiles and rolls her eyes.

“You have siblings? Big house like this must get lonely,” she asks, pushing for light but maybe falling a little bit short. Thanks, gravity.

“Little brother,” she catches herself right at the end of that and adjusts, “well, not young anymore, I suppose. He’s nearly eleven, now, but he’s still five in my head.”

“Eleven’s still pretty young,” Mélie mumbles, a picture of her eleventh birthday flashing behind her eyes before she can squash it.

Amicia lifts a butter knife. “Actually,” and she throws on an absolutely _adorable_ impersonation of her brother; Mélie doesn’t even care if it’s accurate, “‘I’m _eleven_ now, Amicia. And I’m old enough to watch what I want on the telly.’ He’s a rascal.”

“Hey,” she drawls, slouching further across the bench. “You sure you don’t know my brother? That’s what _he_ sounds like.”

Amicia laughs; she does that so easily. Mélie barely has to _try_, like she’s just genuinely happy about… something. Her chest seizes for a second and she’s honestly concerned if her heart keeps acting up like this she’ll have to go to a hospital.

“Is it like, stalker creepy if I ask where everyone _else_ is?” Mélie asks her softly. “I kinda just assumed your father at least would be here to glare over my shoulder and make sure I didn’t filch anything.”

“They’re on holidays at the moment. Hugo, my brother, loves the ocean, can’t believe it’s so big, so they took him to the coast for the week.”

“Not you?”

“Work.”

“Ah. It’s a bitch.” Amicia sets down some rolls of bread, a selection of sliced meats, salads and cheeses and Mélie quirks her lips but doesn’t comment. “What work do you even do for a winery?”

She hunches one shoulder. “I’m mostly sales. I go to local stores and make sure we have a contract with them or I find new places to do deals with.”

“Like a face.” Mélie is so busy stuffing bits and pieces into her bread that she doesn’t notice the strange amused expression on Amicia’s face until the silence gets to her and she looks up.

“A what?”

“A face, you know, someone who does all the ground work so someone else can sweep in and capitalise on the progress they made.”

“Sure? I’d call it more like a liaison.”

“Rich people talk.”

“As opposed to _criminal_ speak.”

Mélie finds she even laughs at that, just a little bit. “Okay, fair.” She lifts her sandwich but thinks twice before taking a bite and lowers it again. “So I told you, up front, that I was a criminal. That was literally my first impression to you was robbing a guy. Why would you let me do work for you in your _very_ expensive _castle_?”

Amicia fiddles with her own sandwich for a moment before putting it back onto her plate and nudging it with one finger until the edges line up. When she meets Mélie’s gaze there’s something almost… wary in her eyes, afraid even. “Have you ever met someone and known immediately that they wouldn’t hurt you? In any way?”

“No,” she replies without hesitation. “In fact all my experiences have taught me the opposite.”

“Usually I would agree with you,” Amicia goes on, the twist to her mouth turning wry for a split second, “but when you showed up yesterday, I had a gut reaction of ‘thank goodness, someone nice’ and I haven’t been wrong.”

Mélie struggles with the honest response to that which is _dying_ to escape for some reason. That normally Mélie would let people be, don’t get involved in the business of others, it never ends well, just mind your own shit and move along, you don’t see anything. That it was a weirdly visceral instinct that drove her over to Amicia and she never even thought of fighting it.

She shakes her head. “Yeah, you’re wrong. I’m not a _nice_ person, princess,” is what she says instead. “Most people are shitty. That’s just facts.”

“Little bit offended by that.”

Mélie shoots her a toothy grin. “I said _most_.”

Amicia’s return smile is at least thirty percent more honest and twice as bright. Mélie does her best to ignore it and polishes off her sandwich.

She finishes eating first and slips off the stool. “Nearest bathroom in the McMansion?”

“Out the door, go right, end of the hall, last door on the left.”

“Cheers.”

After the bathroom (which is like four times the size of their van, cool), she heads back to the main hall. Or, well, whatever rich people call the first great big empty room of their house. Foyer? _Reception_? Who knows?

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she taps the hard case with a blunt nail before unlocking it to read Arthur’s other messages.

_u do care _

_or u wouldn’tve messaged me_

_she got a bro?_

_the universe is a cold cruel bitch_

_bet she has a bro_

_n i want proof of the tattoo-crest_

Mélie bites off a bitter laugh. Wouldn’t that be ironic? The tattoo referring to Amicia’s brother. Classic. But if he’s only eleven that’s a _hard_ pass.

She texts back, _baby bro, eleven, that’s it_, and then she snaps a photo of the shield and sends it to him.

Damn prick must be sitting around with his phone in his hand waiting for a message because the little dots pop up immediately. They disappear for a second and then the image is marked as seen and start up again. Which it turns out is a good thing because it gave her a few more moments without seeing her brother call her, _pedo creep_, with an emoji of a face sticking its tongue out.

His next message is in all caps: _DUDE THAT’S UR TAT_. And the one after that isn’t in all caps but she can practically hear the reverence in his voice, _are those real swords_.

_Mélie: her great smth gramps was a knight_

_Arthur: mad cool. marry her immediately_

_Mélie: u suck_

He sends her a kissy face. Jerk.

Mélie locks her phone and jams it back into her pocket. She doesn’t move though, maybe she can’t, her feet no longer feel like they belong to her, heart filled with lead in her chest, weighing her down. She just stands there staring at the shield, right hand twisting the leather band on her opposite wrist.

Her fingers shake so hard that it’s almost impossible to loosen the laces and slip the band over her hand but she does and when she holds her wrist up in front of her face her heart does that thing where it stops beating and her lungs forget how to take in oxygen. It’s a perfect match.

“Mélie?”

She whirls so fast she nearly trips over her own feet and lands on her ass. Her hand claps reflexively over her wrist and the sound echoes faintly in the giant room. Amicia doesn’t miss it, either, her eyes drop to her hand before flicking back to her face curiously.

“Oh, uh, I got… turned around? This place is huge.”

It’s very obvious that Amicia doesn’t believe her. “Uh huh. Did you hurt yourself?”

“No!” She winces at the pitch she hits with that. Dogs can probably hear it. “I’m fine.”

Amicia steps closer to her, _closer_, close enough that she can count the freckles across her nose. Mélie leans back reflexively, pressing her wrist flat against her belly. Amicia squints and it’s _probably_ meant to look intimidating – and it fucking works.

“If you’ve hurt yourself while on the clock for me, I’m not paying you,” she says tonelessly.

Mélie swallows, fully believing it, nods her head just a tad.

“Show me.”

“I’d rather not,” her voice is so small, it’s kinda embarrassing.

“_Show_ me, Mélie.”

“Ugh. You’re the worst. I don’t want to, okay. I don’t believe in this crap. Just let me finish what I came here to do and then I’ll leave okay. Easy as that.”

Amicia’s eyes dart between Mélie’s, confusion plain, until it suddenly clears and is replaced by understanding. She shifts, but Mélie doesn’t look away from her face so it’s not until she feels soft fingers at her wrist that she knows what’s going on. For a second, she resists Amicia’s attempts to pry her hand away, but as soon as her fingers close around her wrist, she gives in.

There’s a long, agonising moment where Amicia just stares at her, sifting through whatever she can see in Mélie’s eyes to find the fundamental truth of who she is as a person or some shit. Then she looks down and rolls Mélie’s arm over slowly, gently and she doesn’t seem at all surprised by what she sees. For whatever reason, Mélie can’t look away from her face, entranced by the almost blank expression she’s wearing. It’s not until Amicia runs a finger over the skin of her wrist and a shiver runs through her entire body that she looks down to where they’re connected.

It’s almost… reverent, how Amicia’s thumb brushes over the mark.

“That’s…” she breathes, not letting Mélie go. In fact, her other hand comes up to hold Mélie’s hand and it’s… It’s surely _something_, the sensation it creates. “Our crest.” Her eyes trail up until they meet Mélie’s eyes again, flick between them; she doesn’t let go of her arm.

She tries to smile but it probably looks more like a grimace. “Arthur thinks it’s for your brother.” The words strike her as a mistake as soon as she’s said them, alas, it’s much too late to retract that.

Luckily, Amicia smiles, just the faintest curve of her lips but Mélie can’t help but watch the subtle ways it changes her face. “Unlikely.” Amicia’s hand squeezes her fingers. She steps closer and it’s funny that she can even do that they were so close already.

Very slowly, and very shakily, Amicia finally releases her wrist and raises one hand to brush hair away from Mélie’s face. With just two fingers to her jaw, Amicia turns her head to the right and for a moment Mélie can’t for the life of her figure out why.

Every bone in her body does that thing where it like, relaxes improbably and her jaw falls open. Her earring? Really.

“I’ll show you mine?” Amicia says in a voice so fragile it should break. She lifts her other hand and pulls the collar of her shirt away from her neck.

Mélie’s treacherous face lights up and her eyes dart away. Amicia only laughs, waits. Eventually she has to look back – _has_ to, like there’s some fucking gravitational pull to Amicia or something. And there, just below her left collarbone, is a loop with three beads on it. There’s a funny squiggle near it too that she can’t decipher but that’s her earring alright.

“What the fuck,” she says, eloquent as ever.

Amicia, bless her, laughs. “So you don’t believe in this crap, huh?”

Mélie’s jaw saws open a second time. “You _knew_,” she accuses. “When we met yesterday, you knew.”

“You have a very unique earring, Mélie, it wasn’t hard to recognise.”

“I feel kinda duped.”

“It’s not every day you meet your soul mate, they save you from an asshole, rob him, buy you a cupcake and admit to being a hacker all in the space of an hour,” Amicia tells her drolly.

Mélie scoffs. “You believe we’re, what? _Destined_ for each other or some shit, right?”

“I believe,” she begins slowly, choosing her words with care, “that you’re not as mean as you project and I’d like to at least explore the possibility.”

She huffs again. “Your parents are soul mates, right?”

“No,” Amicia says, surprising her in every way. “They’re not. But they still love each other very much. And it doesn’t make _this_ wrong.”

“It can be,” she whispers.

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t mean the soul mate concept in general, of course _that’s_ not perfect. I meant you and me, specifically.”

The bottom of Mélie’s stomach falls out and some warm, swirly liquid empties itself into her chest cavity. “Oh.”

Amicia takes one of her hands again, tangles their fingers together. “What do you think? You can go back up to that dark room and break my dad’s computers, or I’ll get some snacks and we can watch a movie?”

Mélie’s brows come together warily. “Is that some kinda metaphor I don’t understand?”

“Actors on a screen playing a role for our entertainment? Do movies mean something else where you’re from?” she asks sweetly and there’s this… this warm, sharp teasing lilt to her tone, it makes her spine tingle.

“Oh you’re gonna be trouble, aren’t you?”

“I think you’d do fine without me on that front.”

Amicia makes to drag her away but Mélie pulls her up short. “Wait.” And she manages to snap a perfect candid photo of Amicia looking adorably confused to send Arthur.

Predictably, he responds within five seconds: _MARRY! HER!_

Amicia, peering down at the screen, starts laughing.

Mélie shrugs. “My brother has spoken.” And when Amicia shakes her head softly, touches her cheek and presses a brief kiss to her mouth, Mélie doesn’t pull away. (And she only freaks out a little.)

\--

Mélie believes in two things:

  1. The only person you can count on is yourself, everyone else will let you down eventually
  2. That dumb soul mate system is imperfect

But she’ll make an exception on both for Amicia.

(And maybe she’ll give Arthur a pass on point one now and then.)


End file.
